It Started with a Whisper
by fucking-sherlock
Summary: "The only times his existence would brighten, literally, was when John Watson stepped into the room, switched on the lights and asked the often sulking consulting detective to welcome him home." Sherlock hates change.


_**It started with a  Whisper.**_

Dull.  
Boring.  
Everything seemed to appear black and white to the man.  
Everything so dark and gloomy.  
The only times his existence would brighten, literally, was when John Watson stepped into the room, switched on the lights and asked the often sulking consulting detective to welcome him home.

Nothing seemed to have changed within the three years they had been living together.  
But he wanted things to change.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.

He claims to be a loner, but that's utter bull crap.  
Covering up his true friends by calling them his colleagues or companions, the stubborn Sherlock Holmes will never learn... Not that anyone expected him to.

The soft sound of the rain hitting the windows is heard. Noisy, but not excruciatingly irritating.  
Pausing for a brief moment from his usual violin rehearsals, he listened to the sound of the rain. Easily falling, putting up no fight to stay in the sky where the clouds belong... Giving up so easily, somehow, despite the fact that raindrops are nothing more than a liquid which had been evaporated repeatedly from lakes and rivers, they seemed to inspire others. As though... Such a tiny drop of liquid had made it this far, and yet, look at us. Look at us pathetic humans, unable to move from one place to another without a disaster striking or using something or someone to guide our way.  
Incredible, isn't it?

A quiet slam of the door snapped the man out of his thoughts, tearing his gaze from the window and listening intensely for the footsteps to ascend the staircase and enter their flat.  
Waiting like an obedient dog for his owner.

"Sherlock?" He could hear John call out to the man, from the staircase, taking his sweet time in entering the flat and placing the groceries in the kitchen. Followed by the other's usual complaining about the heads and frozen fingers in the refrigerator or microwave.  
He smiled.  
How simple life would be if he hadn't had this eerie yet strangely heart warming feeling bubbling up within his chest. He could feel his senses tingling every time the other spoke his name, every time they accidentally brushed past each other, touching one another just the slightest, would be able to set his body ablaze.  
It wasn't that he didn't like it.  
It was that he couldn't stand the fact that he didn't have a single clue...what these reactions meant. Was it normal? Between friends? Having this strange sensation pumping throughout his body no matter what the other did?

No.

He knew that much.

He gently placed his bow and violin back on the table where they usually sat, pacing over to the other and allowing a smile to replace his usual frown.  
John smiled in return.  
"Would you like some coffee?" asked the other, his body swiftly moving through the kitchen, placing things where they're supposed to be and whatnot.  
"Black, two sugars." Sherlock agreed in his own special way that John seemed to have learnt to understand by now.  
Nothing different today,  
But Sherlock was going to change that.

* * *

It's been three years. This exact day that the two men had met, the two men had found each other in the most unexpected way imaginable. And yet, to find someone so different yet so much alike you, is rare.  
The two men had not only met, and bound together their lives...  
But they had also wordlessly noticed that as soon as they spoke their first words to each other, their fates were hopelessly intertwined with the other's.

It was exactly seven thirty in the evening, and the two men had found each other huddled close together unconsciously as they watched the television from a distance.  
None of them were really focusing.  
Sherlock couldn't stop his short and obvious glances he sent to John, and John simply couldn't focus with the other's hand and eyes constantly on him.  
Sherlock's hands found John's easily despite the darkness in the room surrounding them. The loud voices and laughter erupting from the television filled the silence in the room. But nothing could ease the tension within the men's minds and bodies.  
His thumb traced the outline of John's palm, occasionally stroking his fingers gently and rubbing in circles along the smooth and warm surface of his hand.  
Even though Sherlock couldn't deduct what the other was thinking, he was fine. Just like this.  
It was already and improvement.  
A change.

The show ended, credits displaying on the HD screen on the flat TV, Sherlock still didn't let go, but he could feel John's body already giving in to his exhaustion. Two hours had passed, more or less. Still early, but neither of them decided to argue when John switched off the TV.  
They sat there, in the deafening silence. Saying nothing, and simply holding each other close.  
Was this what friends did?  
Hold each other close, even when neither of them were depressed?  
he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.  
Because he was fine, even if it meant just being friends...

_Until things began to change inside of him._

John cleared his throat and stood up, pulling away from Sherlock, the detective did the same, following reluctantly.  
"I'm going to retire for the night, goodnight Sherlock." John murmured in his usual soothing tone of voice that never failed to calm Sherlock's constantly agitated nerves. The responsible one of the two men began to clean up the dinner plates and mugs, placing them in the sink to wash in the morning.  
Without another word, John made his way up the staircase and back into his bedroom.

Sherlock didn't even bother saying, 'goodnight'.  
Tonight was supposed to be special.  
He needed to change something...

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was standing right outside of his flatmate's bedroom door. His hand lifted and ready to knock on the thin wooden board that seemed to be the only thing separating the two men.  
No.

Sherlock forced his hand away, pausing to take in a deep breath and clear his mind, what on earth was he thinking? Knocking in his own flatmate's bedroom door at three in the morning... Having no excuse to do so, and yet he just felt like talking?  
He thought that nothing had changed within the three years they had been together, that's not entirely true.  
John had finally outgrown is fears, the torturous memories that used to haunt the ex-army soldier seemed to now haunt the consultant detective's mind and dreams. Forcing him to awaken at ungodly hours of the night, and sleep through half the day. He couldn't bear trying to tell John this.  
Tell him what exactly? So what if he had nightmares? What was John Watson going to do about it?  
Was Sherlock simply going to barge through the door, and wake John up? Curl up next to him, and pray that the nightmares don't come for him tonight? ...

That thought doesn't sound too bad right now.  
What he would give to curl up next to John's warm, and gentle body right at this moment...

* * *

Well you're here, now what?  
There he stood, both his hands balled up in fists, standing right next to the unconscious body of his flatmate.  
Companion.  
friend.

A month has passed, that night... Their, anniversary of some sort, and only cuddling had occurred. Though it was cozy and delightful, he still felt hollow and empty inside.

Sherlock had managed to push past the hesitating and wary stage, and enter the other's room without disturbing his colleague's rest. And now there he stood, unquestionably unable to think or move anymore. Paralyzed.

Clumsily and sharply, as soon as Sherlock had managed to regain his ability to move his limbs, he fled from the bedroom, without looking back.

* * *

One month,  
Two months,  
Three months.  
Others would say time flies by within a blink of an eye,  
But Sherlock couldn't help but wish for time to speed up.

Sherlock couldn't help the ache in his chest when he recalled of the times he had imagined his naive flatmate being able to see through his incredibly well camouflaged facade, and realizing how much the detective longed for the other...  
Day by day,  
His cravings only grew stronger and more feeble by each attempt.  
More and more needy.  
More and more unquestionably...  
Falling for the other,  
Falling far too hopelessly.

To have thought that something had happened between the two men, was nothing but a mere theory... Nothing but a hope that seemed to have overruled his rational side.  
But to see the other, looking at Sherlock so normally, not even feeling that that anything had happened between the two at all-...  
It hurts.  
It hurts so much.

* * *

Half a year passed,  
Somewhere around the four month mark, Sherlock had stopped watching his companion sleep.  
Around the same time, his nightmares seemed to grow more and more vivid. Instead of being able to snap himself back into reality as he could before, he could only stay still, and await for the dreams to pass in silence.  
Somehow,  
He preferred the pain over the piercing silence.

* * *

Winter,  
Christmas,  
Then new years.

Finally, after a year, Sherlock's birthday arrived.

He didn't care much for his birthdays,  
Because the only thing he ever wanted so eagerly before, would never be given to him on a silver platter.

A loud slam of the door was heard, quickly helped John organize a few things downstairs in 221A. Having nothing else to do, Sherlock took a long, warm shower.  
Drying himself off with his towel, he could hear the voices of people chattering, laughing, and quiet music in the background. He looked around in the bathroom, forgetting to acquire cloths to change in, and spotted a dazzling sky blue long sleeved collar shirt, and pitch black jeans. Along with a card which had elegantly written letters scribbled on it, forming the two words, 'Happy Birthday.' next to the note, was an expensive gold and silver watch for himself. The signs were a little too obvious that Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's only brother had given this to him.  
A few minuets later, Sherlock had managed to pull on his new clothes and straighten himself out. His damp curls neatly combed and styled. His pale white ghostly face that clearly showed lack of sleep and exhaustion. He knew what was going on, he could hear the loud chattering and the sudden sound of other hushing one another as Sherlock made his way into the living room, forcing a bright smile onto his face, despite how painful it seemed to feel. Unable to be himself, unable to act normal, well as normal as he would get around anyone. Because no one, would ever think of Sherlock Holmes as that average man on the street. The average genius who lived in 221B Baker street. The average neighbor whom was so very kind to lend a hand at such a filthy murder scene.  
Because they all thought that wasn't him.  
And he's begun to believe that.

* * *

"Happy Birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Sherloc-"

"FREAK!"

"Happy Birthday to you!" Sherlock clapped his two thin yet large palms together, chuckling halfheartedly as he heard Sally Donovan's voice yell out his nickname; 'freak' over the loud singing of the guests in the apartment.  
John soon approached Sherlock and handed him a glass of champane, asking him to make a toast, and blow out the candles on the cake they had got for him, Sherlock reluctantly agreed and followed his flat mate, ignoring the sudden increase of heart rate he could feel in his chest.  
Within a few minuets, they had managed to gather and squeeze all twenty or so guests into the kitchen, John had managed to somehow clear away all the experiments and find the hidden tabletop beneath the few inches of paperwork Sherlock had made a mess with.

The two men soon made their way to the back of the kitchen and pulled out a cake, Chocolate Gateu with extra whipped cream. Sherlock's favourite. Mycroft must have informed John about this. Despite Sherlock's constant nagging and teasing about his elder brother's weight and obsession with cakes, Sherlock too loved everything sweet. But instead of allowing himself to indulge in his beloved pleasures, he began to try and start a habbit of getting used to the bitterness of his morning coffee.

The detective grabbed the cake, and many paper plates, forks and cups, popping open a new champane bottle, making his wish, blowing out the candles. The rest of the party seemed to pass by quickly, everything was a blur. Greeting a few of John's friends, John's relatives (Despite the fact that he hadn't wanted them to attend the party.), Mycroft's assistants, and simply greeting the few people whom have worked with him on cases together. (Even though every one of them despised Sherlock's guts, they couldn't help but have a great time.) Soon enough, everyone gradually left. Leaving Mycroft, Lestrade, John and Sherlock alone in the flat. Drinking and playing cards.  
"Why not open the presents now?" Mycroft had suggested suddenly, he knew very well Sherlock hated opening gifts in front of others. Knowing that once he picked up the gifts and gave them a small shake, he would know exactly what was inside of them, and rarely give any positive feedback to anyone.

"Actually-"

"Sure! Why not?"

John cut in, sending Sherlock a 'don't start this shit with me' sort of look, he looked back at the other, and John beamed brightly, rising from the table and getting all the gifts.

As soon as John was out of sight, Sherlock turned back to look at his brother,  
"Mycroft. You know exactly what'll happen. What if I hate John's presentor Lestrade's? Not as if your's would be any better." He spat out, making sure the now-drunk Gregory Lestrade wouldn't be able to overhear them.  
"Oh Sherlock. See? You've already accepted one of my gifts, why not the others? I'm sure you'll like them." Mycroft continued on, glancing at the watch Sherlock had worn, smirking as he did so, Sherlock's eyes only narrowing more with each passing word.  
"Okay! Which first?" John interrupted, the two siblings cleared the table. Lestrade could barely walk properly as he slowly took a seat on the couch opposite from the flat mate's and next to Mycroft.  
"None." Sherlock muttered under his breath, John shooting him the exact same look as before, as though John Watson was his mother, telling little Sherlock to behave.  
"How about Molly's?" John asked, pulling out a red and green wrapped present that was about the size of Sherlock's palm.  
The consulting detective outstretched his hand, offering John to pass it over to him.  
"Ohhh No." John started, his face completely serious as he handed Mycroft the present.  
"Mycroft's going to open everything and show you, so you can't deduce what's inside of them." Sherlock smiled, how well John knew the detective,

He could feel his heart racing again.  
What was he?  
_A school girl in love?_

"Sherlock."  
"Hmm?"  
The entire flat had been evacuated an hour ago, Sherlock and John had spent the time finishing the excess wine and champane, Sherlock stuffing himself with cake, and the two just huddling close to one another. Just like their 'special day' last year. Sitting there, cuddling close, it felt so perfect at the time, so heartwarming and unique. Now he just felt simply unsatisfied.  
"Sherlock." John mumbled again, he was most positively the one who drank the most today. Sherlock, on the other hand, could still walk in a straight line and play the violin without hesitation. He had endured years of drug use, and alcohol, such a thing need no effort to pull off.  
"Sherlockkkkkkk." John continued to rant, followed by a childish giggle of some sort that was able to send shivers down Sherlock's back.  
"Okay. That's enough for you." Wow, the positions betweeen the two of them changed incredibly fast, one moment John is the mother, the next, Sherlock is.  
Sherlock began to tug the half empty bottle of wine away from John, the other whined in return, continuing to ramble on about how Sherlock was a huge 'meany' that only likes to steal other people's wine. Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh at his childish remarks.  
"John, you're completely wasted, it's my birthday, it should be the other way around, correct?"  
"Don't pull that-" John gave a quiet hiccup and continued, "..birthday crap with me. I didn't even know it was your birthday. How come we've never celebrated it before? And why did Mrs. Hudson have to be the one to tell me?" John kept on forcing question after question, his voice faltering from a sort soothing and childish tone, to a more rapid and furious one. Despite the fact that John had had one too many bottles of wine, Sherlock felt as though it wasn't the alcohol speaking.

"You never asked."  
"Bullshit. I asked you every year, you said it was never important."  
"Because it isn't."  
"But you enjoyed it, didn't you?" John gave another hiccup and finally allowed the detective to stash the remains of his wine in the fridge. Along with the cake, dinner and other beverages. The detective gave a sigh, walking back over to his companion and making himself comfortable by wrapping an arm around the other, not like the drunk would even notice.  
"Yes, I did. Thank you."

John's eyes seemed to droop slowly, it was nearly midnight, they would have to spend the entire day tomorrow cleaning up the mess they had all made today, but it seemed worth it. Even if he had to force himself to socialize with others, everything was worth it since John seemed to enjoy it enough for both of them.  
Sherlock smiled back at the other, then suddenly remembered something,

"John, where's my present from you?" He inquired, sincerely curious as he wondered what his flat mate would have gotten him for his first birthday bash for Sherlock, since they had ever met.  
John gave a drousy mumble of some sort, and shut his eyes slowly,  
"John, I want my present."

"Beneath- the table..." The drunk mumbled, his eyes completely shut now, Sherlock shook the other slightly just to keep him awake, he wanted to spend the rest of the evening together, even if it was just mere minuets until the clock is to strike twelve. The consulting detective got up from the sofa, and trailed his hand on the floor beneath the table. Unaware that John had followed, he squatted down, knowing his jeans would look slightly tight on himself as he did so, he couldn't help but yelp as John suddenly wrapped an arm around the detective's torso.  
"I lied." John stated dully, followed by a series of laughter and Sherlock joining in halfway through, just because he found John's laugh too cute-

There it was again.

His heart rate increasing, rushing blood to the brain, to his face, blush forming, pupils dilating, he could feel himself suddenly burning as the other gently stroked Sherlock's messy curls with a strong hand. The two sat there, for what seemed like hours, holding each other in the strangest position yet.

"...John?"  
"Hmm?"  
"I want my present."  
"I'll give it to you, when you earn it."  
"John, do you really want to play games with me?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and turning his head slightly to look at John from the corner of his eyes to refrain from pulling away from the other.

He could feel John's breath against his cheek, his colleague's thumb stroking the blush on Sherlock's face, and examining his detailed features silently. Sherlock grew the slight bit nervous as he did so, obviosuly concealing it well. He still couldn't understand why the drunk John Watson was so eager to touch the other.  
Sherlock forced a sigh, the smell of chocolate and wine lingering in the air for a moment, then he could only smell John's intoxicating breath and shampoo.

"Please?"  
The doctor shook his head, not once letting go of Sherlock, John then clenched onto his flat mate's warm hand, and dragged him back onto the couch, returning to their position from how they were, next to the table. John's hand around Sherlock's torse, Sherlock's hands holding onto John's and both their breaths steady, yet nervous.

"Sherlock."

The detective flinched as the other suddenly spoke his name, his tone of voice wasn't normal...much more, powerful somehow? As though he was giving an order in the army. He sucked in a breath, inhaling the other's scent through his nostriles and allowing the other to lean in towards his sensitive neck, jaw and ear.  
"Sherlock, It's a beautiful name." Watson continued, somehow managing to make Sherlock even more nervous. What was going to happen next?

"John-"  
Sherlock was interrupted once more by the sudden beeping noise on his watch. So, Mycroft had somehow knew Sherlock always woke up at midnight to prevent nightmares, or it was mere coincidence? He waited for the beeping to stop, but John spoke before he could, talking quickly, quietly in a raspy tone of voice to Sherlock.

"...You're beautiful, Sherlock. Happy Birthday. ...I-...I love you."

_I... love you?_

Was Sherlock hearing correctly? No. Definitely just the alcohol talking, no way John would say such a thing so easily... or maybe.. he had intentionally gotten himself drunk, just to be able to say such a thing without being suspected? If that was the reason... Sherlock would stay quiet, and allow John to keep his pride.

Once again, Sherlock attempted to speak, John, absolutely wasted by now took the chance to lean in and press their lips together... Tracing his tongue against the detective's lips slowly. It only lasted a second, but time seemed to stop as he did so. Sherlock could only find himself wishing the other would never stop.

John pulled away, still giggling like an idiot, Sherlock froze, unable to comprehend what his mind was trying to say. If it wasn't for John's sudden cough, he would have blanked out completely. Mind racing, heart pumping, body ablaze and trembling nervously, he soon felt a soft package against his arm, John offered Sherlock a cow-design wrapped present.

Sherlock accepted slowly, his eyes attempting to stay focused and his hands trying to refrain from shaking, he finally managed to pull off the last of the strings, to reveal a yellow scarf, with bee patterns on it.  
He smiled, and gave John's hand a squeeze,  
"This might just have been, the best birthday I've ever experienced." He stated, offering a smile to John, and the other mirrored it.  
"I'm glad you liked everything."  
"Thank you John."

"I love you Sherlock."John whispered, his arm tightening around Sherlock as though he never wanted to let the other go, he stayed paralyzed again, unable to control himself or his babbling mouth,

_**I love you too**_.

_"...I know."_

He just couldn't bring himself to say it.  
But at least something has changed, something incredible.  
Say that he's desperate, believing a drunk's words,

**_But something has changed,_**  
**_And it all started with a whisper._**

* * *

**_A/N; Might start a sequel for this if any of you request it. I hope you all enjoyed my first fanfic :3_**


End file.
